by Diana Bold
Since the damage had already been done, he decided to brazen it out, hoping she would appreciate his honesty. “Would you prefer I got down on my knee? Pledged an undying love I do not feel?”
“Of course not.” She shifted again, a sinuous slide of satin and legs. He wondered if she knew how the mere thought of those long slender limbs affected him. “But since we’re being so candid, I think it’s only fair that you answer a few of my questions as well.”
Michael nodded, immediately on the defensive. He supposed turnabout was fair play, but he’d never known a woman with the audacity to actually demand such a right.
“Did you care deeply for Lady Natalia?” She watched him with the intensity of a cat guarding a mouse hole. “Are you angry with your brother for stealing her away?”
For a long moment, he didn’t reply. How did she know about that? A flicker of respect sparked inside him. She’d obviously been well prepared for his visit, despite this elaborate show to the contrary.
“I hardly knew Lady Natalia,” he answered carefully. “And I’m not angry with my brother.”
That much was true. His relationship with his brother was complicated. After his initial surge of fury, he’d been pleased to see Dylan happy, even though his brother’s marriage had narrowed his own choices dramatically.
“That’s very noble of you.” She brushed another errant strand of dark hair from her eyes and gave him a cynical smile. “Do you have a gambling problem?”
“Certainly not!” He’d spent his entire life avoiding the pitfalls and temptations of his position.
“You needn’t get all prickly, Lord Sherbourne. I only ask because I can’t understand how a man of your status and intelligence could have found himself so desperately in debt.” She raised an inquiring brow. “You are in debt, aren’t you? Quite deeply, I’d hazard to guess, since you’re willing to marry a woman you obviously find abhorrent in every conceivable way.”
Touché.
His grudging admiration for the chit grew. Though he wanted to argue the point—defend himself in some way—he knew he must regain control of the situation. As she’d pointed out, this was hardly the way to conduct a courtship. “I don’t find you abhorrent. Merely… different.”
“Don’t you think I realize that in your mind different and abhorrent are one and the same?” She shook her head, her dark eyes sparkling. “I must admit I’d hope for something more than a mere viscount. For half a million pounds, I’d hoped to buy a marquess at the very least.”
Half a million pounds?
He’d heard rumors about the size of her dowry—had known it was quite large—but the actual amount staggered him. Lord, he could put a new roof on Sherbourne Hall without even making a dent in such an enormous sum.
“I’m the Earl of Warren’s heir,” he reminded her. How dare she infer he wasn’t good enough?
She pursed her lips, but her eyes continued to dance. He sensed she was having quite a good time at his expense.
“Yes, but we don’t know how long it will take you to inherit the title, do we? I’ve seen your father. He seems pretty hale. Besides, even if you were a duke, I doubt I’d consider marrying someone so lacking in the ability to have fun.”
Michael surged to his feet, outraged. Of all the ridiculous…
He couldn’t afford to have fun. Too much depended on him.
“Obviously, I’ve made a grave error in judgment. We don’t suit at all.” He bowed stiffly. “Good day, Miss Marks. I’ll see myself out.”
She laughed and rose to meet him. “I don’t know, Lord Sherbourne. You’re very easy to annoy, and I find that rather fun in and of itself.” To his utter shock, she brushed his cheek lightly with her fingertips. “And there is this… attraction between us. Surely, you’ve felt it.”
Up close, she was more beautiful than anyone had a right to be. Her features were sheer perfection, her skin unblemished, creamy, and silky smooth. The urge to lean forward and kiss her sweet mouth wiped away his earlier irritation.
“Viscountess Sherbourne,” she mused. “Perhaps that would do.” With a small sigh, she stepped away. “I’ll think about your proposal and give you my answer in a few days.”
And so it was that Michael Blake, Viscount Sherbourne—the Earl of Warren’s heir—found himself summarily dismissed by an American adventuress.
* * *
Emma was still mulling over Lord Sherbourne’s strange visit when Jane breezed into the room. Always an early riser, Jane was impeccably dressed in a steel-gray morning gown better suited to someone twice her age. Her blond hair was piled into a tight chignon, a style that sharpened her features in a most unflattering manner.
Amused, Emma decided that Basingstoke’s sweet gesture had unbalanced Jane so deeply she’d felt the need to reassure herself of her spinsterhood.
Jane came to an abrupt halt when she caught sight of Emma. “Good God, Emma. Please tell me you didn’t receive Viscount Sherbourne in your dressing gown. Whatever must he think of you?”
Emma grinned. “He thinks I’m a little better than a whore. But he wants to marry me anyway.”
Emma knew her behavior had been unacceptable, but she’d wanted to see how Sherbourne would react. To her immense surprise, she’d managed to disconcert him. She’d forced him to play his hand far earlier than he’d intended, and she’d proven his icy reserve was indeed a facade.
Beneath it lay an intriguing mass of seething emotions she’d desperately like to explore.
“Sherbourne proposed?” Jane abruptly switched hats from companion to friend. She gave Emma an exuberant hug, so excited she forgot to chide her for either her language or brazen behavior. “Oh, Emma. How wonderful. He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for.”
“Yes. He’s absolutely perfect.” Emma accepted Jane’s congratulations a little warily, still stunned by the ease of her conquest.
The search for a title had proven far more difficult than she’d originally anticipated. Her enormous dowry and unusual beauty were most definitely strengths, but her age and lack of breeding had hindered her from making a truly spectacular match.
These English aristocrats wanted dewy young flowers who hadn’t a clue how to speak their minds. The more blue-blooded her quarry, the more extreme this tendency became. The desolate rakes who made up the prince’s chosen set found her irresistible as a potential mistress but had no intention of taking a wife who might dare contradict them.
“Sherbourne needs my dowry desperately.” Emma ducked out of Jane’s embrace. “He didn’t even try to deny it.”
Jane frowned. “Well, we knew that, of course. But I expected him to propose more gracefully. He should have made more of an effort to court you.”
“He considers his proposal a business arrangement.” Emma was beset by sudden doubts. She’d finally accomplished her life’s goal, only to wonder if this was what she truly wanted.
If she accepted Sherbourne’s proposal, her marriage would be the envy of all those hateful cats back in New York. But what did it matter, if the man she married remained a cool, remote stranger?
“Surely, romance will come in time,” Jane assured her. “I sensed a strong attraction between the two of you.”
“He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.” Emma shrugged away her misgivings, her natural exuberance returning full force.
What would it take to make him smile, to see those incredible blue eyes filled with laughter? The challenge he presented might be reason enough to say yes.
“Perhaps I will marry your haughty young viscount,” she told Jane conspiratorially. “But I’m not going to give him an answer right away. In fact, I have every intention of making him wonder.”
* * *
“I forbid you to marry that blasted American chit.” The Earl of Warren frowned at his heir with thunderous disapproval, his large frame resonating with suppressed violence. “How can you even consider making such a stupid mistake?”
Michael fought to keep from flinchi
ng beneath his father’s steely regard. The older man’s censure still had the ability to wound him, though he’d long since learned to hide such weakness.
He’d been summoned to his father’s country estate like some recalcitrant schoolboy, then forced to wait in the earl’s library for nearly an hour before his father had put in an appearance.
“What do you suggest?” Michael asked stiffly. “If I don’t marry Miss Marks, we face complete financial ruin.”
“Ungrateful bastard!” Warren slammed his fists on the surface of his desk, half rising out of his chair in his fury. “Are you insinuating that this fiasco is my fault? How dare you! After you refused Clayton and handed Lady Natalia to your worthless brother like a bloody birthday gift?”
Michael didn’t bother to point out that he wouldn’t have had to marry an heiress in the first place, if not for the earl’s blatant mismanagement of the family funds and refusal to curb his extravagant spending habits.
It would have been pointless, in any event. The earl was blind to his own faults.
“I refuse to discuss Lady Natalia or my brother any further,” Michael answered. God knew they’d argued the point to death over the last few weeks. “I merely wish to point out that Miss Marks is our only option.”
The earl’s icy blue eyes flared with wrath. For an endless moment, Michael thought his father might strike him. Christ, he wished the old son of a bitch would. He’d dearly like the chance to make his father pay for all those beatings he’d given Dylan, when his sons were both small defenseless children.
Warren had always confined his violence to his younger son, a fact that had tormented Michael all his life. He’d been forced to watch helplessly while Dylan had been punished for wrongs both real and imagined, many times for Michael’s own youthful transgressions.
Perhaps that explained why he’d been unable to bring himself to marry Lady Natalia. Dylan deserved whatever happiness he could find.
Seeming to realize his son’s anger finally exceeded his own, the earl sank back into his chair. “You’ll become a laughingstock, marrying a girl like that. Think of the scandal.”
Michael waved a dismissive hand. “The scandal will be minimal. Miss Marks is a great favorite of the prince. In fact, I have every reason to believe he’ll attend the wedding.”
If there is a wedding. Michael refused to give his father the satisfaction of knowing Miss Marks had not yet accepted his proposal. He preferred simply to move forward and continue making plans as though she had.
Warren raised a steely gray brow. “You’ll regret this.”
Having had quite enough of his father for one day, Michael got to his feet. “Don’t pretend I have a choice.” His voice rang with bitterness as he stalked from the room.
Chapter Three
For five endless days, Michael waited for Miss Marks’ answer. When she failed to send so much as a note, her game became clear. He would have to abandon his pride and seek her out.
He dressed for the evening in the austere black he preferred, then grimly hunted through the unopened invitations in the front hall. Which of the myriad entertainments would appeal to a woman like Miss Marks?
At last, he decided she couldn’t possibly resist the lure of the Earl of Chesterfield’s annual ball. Always a terrible crush, it was considered one of the high points of the Season.
An hour later, Michael arrived at the earl’s palatial riverside mansion. As he’d suspected, the place was fairly bursting at the seams with aristocratic guests. A black mood settled over him as he stepped out of his coach. He’d always hated crowds. The press of overheated bodies, shrill laughter, and the overwhelming stench of sweat and perfume never failed to bring on one of his headaches.
After waiting fifteen interminable minutes in the receiving line, he finally found himself at the edge of the ballroom. Nodding briefly to a handful of acquaintances, he skirted the dance floor, intent upon locating his quarry.
She wasn’t difficult to find. Emma was a vision in emerald satin with diamonds sparkling in her dark upswept hair. His breath caught in unwilling appreciation when he spied her waltzing across the floor in none other than the Prince of Wales’ capable arms.
He surveyed her moodily for what seemed an eternity as she partnered a dizzying number of England’s most influential men. Her tinkling laughter and bright smile grated upon his nerves like sandpaper.
With each passing moment, it seemed less likely she’d accept his proposal. After all, why should she settle for a mere viscount when she’d just charmed the future king?
He should’ve arrived sooner, made certain he reserved a space on her dance card. Now there seemed to be no alternative but to try and catch her alone for a moment during the midnight supper.
As though she sensed his patience had reached an end, she suddenly glanced in his direction. Holding his gaze, she headed toward him after her latest dance partner escorted her from the dance floor.
A mischievous smile curved her lips. He was uncertain whether she’d sought him out to accept his proposal, or if she just found it amusing to humiliate him further.
“Good evening, Lord Sherbourne,” she murmured, reaching his side. “I’d hoped to see you here tonight.”
“Good evening, Miss Marks.” Relief washed through him, and they stared at each other cautiously. “I’d ask you to dance, but it seems your dance card is full.”
“It is.” Emma’s smile widened, and her eyes sparkled with the heady knowledge that she was the belle of the ball. “But I saved the next one for you. After all, we have weighty matters to discuss.”
Unaccountably pleased to be in her company once again, Michael offered her his arm. As luck would have it, the orchestra launched into the strains of the evening’s second slow waltz.
As he took her in his arms, the pale upper swells of her breasts drew his gaze. His blood heated at the lush sight. Erotic thoughts and images tumbled through his mind, stunning him with their intensity. He couldn’t recall ever having wanted a woman quite so desperately.
She remained uncharacteristically silent for several long minutes. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one unsettled by the strange chemistry that flowed between them.
“You dance very well,” she told him at last. “I hadn’t expected it of you.”
He frowned. “What did you expect?”
“I thought you’d be as rigid and unyielding on the dance floor as you are the rest of the time.”
Her rudeness surprised a chuckle from him. “Why, Miss Marks. Was there a compliment hidden in there somewhere?”
An arrested speculative look flickered across her lovely features. “You also have a very nice laugh. However, it sounds a bit rusty. Has it been a very long time since you used it?”
He stared down at her, his smile fading. “Yes, it’s been awhile.”
“Well, Lord Sherbourne. I may be lacking in many of the qualities you think you want in a wife, but I consider the ability to make you laugh a great accomplishment. I’m sure you’ll come to cherish it in time.”
He raised a brow, trying to ignore the sudden racing of his heart. “Does this mean you’ve decided to accept my proposal?”
“Perhaps.” She cast a glance at the long row of double doors that led outside. “Would you walk outside with me for a few minutes? I have some or questions to ask you, and there’s also a small test I’d like to perform.”
“A test?” Michael bristled at the mere thought. His cautious optimism vanished like smoke in the wind. “I refuse to play games with you, Miss Marks. Either you agree to marry me, or you don’t. Which is it?”
She shook her head disparagingly. “I’ve been wondering why a man of your looks and years hasn’t already found himself a wife. But it’s obvious. You have no idea how to court a woman.”
“I may know more than you realize,” he fired back, actually enjoying the verbal exchange. No one had ever dared to tease him before. “For one thing, it’s the man who’s supposed to initiate the courtship.”
“If I waited for you to initiate anything, I’d die of old age before we made it to the altar.” Breaking free of his hold, she marched for the open doors, obviously expecting him to follow.
Suppressing an exasperated groan, he did.
She crossed the terrace and plunged into the formal gardens, past the intricately sculptured hedges. When he caught up to her at last, he found her perched on the edge of the marble fountain. Water and moonlight framed her dark fey beauty. He came to a stop a few feet away, mesmerized.
“Do sit down,” Emma urged. “Quit looming above me like some disapproving gargoyle.”
Reluctantly, he did as she asked. Silence fell like a cloak, thick and smothering, wrapping them in intimacy.
She slid her gloved hand in his and stared up at him expectantly. “We hardly know each other, Lord Sherbourne. Don’t you think we should talk a little about what each of us expects from a marriage before we make any rash decisions?”
“What would you like to know?” His voice held a sharp, defensive quality he couldn’t control.
“Well, you do have a first name, don’t you? I certainly don’t intend to call you Lord Sherbourne in the bedroom.” Her impertinent smile mocked him as she again shifted those long, long legs. Although this gown did a much better job of concealing her attributes then her purple dressing gown, the memory of those slender limbs remained branded in his mind.
If he married her, would this searing attraction be a blessing or curse?
“My name is Michael. Michael Richard Blake.”
“Michael.” She repeated the name, slow and sensual, as though she was tasting the syllables. “It suits you. The first time I saw you, I thought you looked like an angel. A warrior angel.”
Ridiculously pleased by her silly little compliment, he fought a smile. “Anything else?”
“Why do you need my dowry so badly?” She leaned toward him, suddenly serious. “I really don’t believe you have a gambling problem. You have far too much self-control. But I think I deserve to know how my father’s money will be spent.”